“Whatever it’s called, I won’t eat it.”
“I’m curious. Have you tried it, or is this dislike innate?”
Chloe huddled into her jacket, staring back in the direction of the hospital. “Whitebear, leave me alone.”
He thought of how she had stood in the school barn, loudly denying she was in labor. Now when she left the little one it was as if she’d cut off her arm. Every time he had to say good-bye to Dog, he felt the same painful fractures, not that it mattered to Corrine.
The Grand Canyon Café wasn’t much for interior decor, but its adobe storefront possessed the look and feel of historic Flagstaff. Without asking where he wanted to sit, Chloe carefully slid into a window booth. Arizonans frequented this place when they were sick of the steak houses, so there were generally seats to spare. In downtown Flag, most necks ran to red, a color that had nothing whatsoever to do with Indians. Junior imagined things weren’t that different from an Asian perspective. Holler melting pot all you wanted, in terms of tolerance, nothing monumental had changed around here. Christmas night he’d walked into the Museum Club to grab a beer and listen to the band. Within minutes there was some party drunk in his face calling him “Chief.” He thought of all the abuse Dog must already have experienced in his short life and wished he’d been there to walk alongside his son.
Chloe didn’t even pick up her menu. She stared out the window at the traffic, her face so sad Junior didn’t bother asking what she wanted. He set about ordering his favorites.
“We’ll start with potstickers. And an order of hoong sien bean curd, the young chow fried rice, and some of those pancakes with the plum sauce.”
“Sake?”
“Green tea for me, thanks, but sure, bring some for the lady.” Chloe was staring at him, her mouth slightly open in surprise. “I’m sorry. You don’t drink?”
“I drink.”
“Well, you’re not driving, so it can’t be that. You one of those girls who only eats salad? I can call the waiter back. Every restaurant’s got lettuce.”
She picked up the table decanter of soy sauce and inspected its list of ingredients, then gave it a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “You’re quite the old hand, ordering for women, eating out in restaurants. I notice you didn’t waste much time checking the price column.”
He looked down at their menus, stacked one inside each other, snuggling like an old married couple. He thought of all the five-star places he’d dined in, compared them to this café, then sobered at the idea of Chloe considering that this meal represented a splurge. “My wallet can handle dinner in Flagstaff.”
“A lot of food. You must be hungry.”
“What we don’t eat we can take back to the motel with us.”
“Motel? Excuse me? You stood in my front yard bragging about four-wheel drive—”
He gestured toward the window, interrupting her. “You think four-wheel will keep idiots without it from running into us? Hank’d have my hide if I returned his woman injured.”
That made her laugh. He focused on that chipped tooth, which just intrigued the hell out of him. Forget the Christmas decorations, damn if her smile didn’t just about light up the whole room.
“Yeah, old Hank’s been known to raise a fist. But he’s in California, he won’t know if we’re driving in the snow. I could handle this powder in my truck, no problem.”
“Too bad you’re not driving, then, because I’m telling you, I know bad snow when I see it.”
“The weather will perk up. I’d bet my horse on it.”
Behind all this tough patter, Junior believed he recognized the presence of Jackrabbit, who was frequently mesmerized by headlights. The animal was generally so nervous he was willing to cross against traffic, an often-fatal guarantee he didn’t have to remain in the all-too-terrifying present. A good therapist might say that Jackrabbit had a little control issue going. Where along the way, Junior wondered, had this woman become so suspicious of men? Hank seemed stand-up; Dog defended his teacher like the man was a superhero. Little stories floated around the reservation: Children who were lazy at home walked five miles to the Oliver place for the privilege of chopping wood. Old women fought over which days of the week they got to bake him loaves of bread. This was nine-yards kind of treatment, rarely afforded white guys, which meant he deserved it.
“I was thinking check in for a couple of hours so you could rest. Things clear a little out there, I’ll wake you up and drive you right home.”
She gave him a smirk.
Junior looked down at the worn tabletop and said, “Food, lodging, shelter from the elements. Where I come from that’s called hospitality, Chloe.”
She pressed her lips together tightly and went quiet. Damn, now their conversation would grind off-kilter the rest of the evening. Junior shot her his best smile, the one that sent photographers to snapping and his publicist into paroxysms of marketing joy. Sami Gee often remarked, Whatever you do, my son, never lose that grin. It’s ninety percent of the sale. “More good news if you can stand it,” Junior said. “Mr. Big Wallet will even spring for dessert.”
“I have a question for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Just where exactly did you live before coming back to Arizona? Must have been someplace where men make all the decisions. Please tell me so I can make sure never to move there.”
“Outermost tip of Massachusetts. Lots of artists live there, a regular colony. Lots of restaurants, too.”
“And you tried them all.”
“I’d rather spend my energy working on jewelry than cooking.”
“And does the same hold true here?”
Cold and heavy, it came to him suddenly, the thought of bulk silver, how the stones and metal used to glitter and beckon to him in his dreams. How the ideas were there in his mind, anxious, begging to be housed in the metal. As shocking as a hard slap across the face, he had to acknowledge the loss. What did he tell her? That once art had flown out the door as merchandise and come back as checks? That now he wore talent around his neck like the proverbial albatross? It could have been the chipped tooth that touched him as much as her baby. He didn’t want to shrug off what she said. This time, for no good reason, he wanted to answer from his heart. “Junior Whitebear is on hiatus,” was what Sami Gee told anyone who asked. Then he went into his “artist refilling the pot” spiel. Galleries loved that, so long as they had back stock to sell along with the story.
“Awhile back something happened that kind of took the heart out of things for me.”
“Some girl break your heart?”
He cracked his knuckles and watched her shudder at the sound. If he could blame his mother’s suicide for some sort of latent breakdown, the answer was yes. If it was the scores of young gay artists he had come to count as his friends one by one getting struck down with the HIV virus, then it wasn’t a girl thing at all. “Listen, don’t make me talk about it too much, or it’ll spoil your appetite.”
“So you’re not working, but you still have the means to indulge your restaurant weakness. You got yourself a stock portfolio, Junior, something like that? If you’re rich, how come you don’t throw some money at your son’s school? Hank says they’ve got a shoestring budget that’s running out of room for knots.”
“Jeepers, is your heart made out of cast iron? Having money changes a man. I indulge certain weaknesses and ignore others. I didn’t know there was a problem at the school. If they need money, I’ll give them whatever I can. Sit there and tell me there isn’t something you’d cater to if you had the bucks to make it happen.”
He could tell he’d tapped the right vein For a moment her brown eyes went far away, and she softened the way she did when little Reed was in her arms. Then she laid her hands flat on the table. Her cheeks were still a bit chubby from pregnancy, but even in the brief period between the birth and this snowy evening, the weight was beginning to drop from her frame. She was one of those women who burned her fuel, and she wasn’t looking so p
lain to him after all, but fiery, which seemed far more interesting.
“I’ve got a new horse nobody’s wrecked yet, a classic truck, and a dog whose major faults are hating men and running away when it thunders, both shortcomings perfectly understandable. I’ve got clothes enough I can go an entire week without washing them. I get laid frequently enough that I don’t sport a sour attitude, and there’s a few good friends I can count on when I’m broke who’ll lend me money when I need it. Of course, these same friends tell me when I’m acting stupid, and often I need to be reminded of that. What the hell else can I possibly cater to?”
Junior smiled. That “getting laid” business went a long way toward disarming him. He had a feeling she knew it. He leaned in on his elbows, narrowing the table space down to a more intimate playing field. “You forgot being a pro at holding back. Wish I knew the reason why. Well, give me time, I’ll figure it out.”
“Good luck. ’Cause there ain’t anything more to it.”
“I think you’re lying.”
She didn’t break eye contact until the waiter set down the tray of sizzling vegetable potstickers. Neither did he. They leaned back at the same time and regarded the food. Junior loaded a plate for her and unwrapped Chloe’s chopsticks.
“Just get me a fork.”
“No way, sister. This is the Grand Canyon Café. Years of tradition are at stake. You pick with sticks.” He fitted the slender pieces of wood into her hand, demonstrated how they opened and shut, then guided her to a potsticker. Predictably, she tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go until she’d closed her mouth around the doughy treat.
“Not bad for foreign,” Chloe said.
“Which illustrates my point.”
“What the hell point am I missing now?”
“That by eating in restaurants, one indulges. And it’s not a bad thing, in fact, sometimes it can lead to interesting consequences.”
She gave him the fisheye, kept on eating. More snow fell, creating drifts now, the flurries occasionally becoming so dense the windows whited out for brief moments. The other customers were evaluating the weather, too. The heater was turned up high. If you had to be stranded, this was a cozy place, with all the great cooking smells surrounding them, the booth comfortable enough to lean back and put your feet up on the opposite bench.
Chloe drank a sip of her sake and wrinkled her nose. “They forgot to put this wine on ice. Should I say something?”
“Hot drinks with hot food, cool drinks with cool. It’s an Asian thing.”
“Yeah? Since when are you Asian?”
“World travel.”
“Don’t tell me, okay?”
“If that’s how you want it.” He thought about how he’d deliberately sneaked up behind her in the hospital nursery. For a long moment before announcing himself, he had stood there just to watch the way she leaned her swollen breast into the hungry little girl’s mouth. Chloe had lovely breasts, of a size that would spill out of his palms and tickle his fingers. And the baby, he couldn’t get enough of Reed, that was true. But this wasn’t about catching a peep of what wasn’t his. Already he’d had his hand inside this woman, had witnessed her most intimate event. It was as if had he done anything else, his actions would have interrupted fate on a massive level. Jimmy died, and his closest surviving relative was supposed to claim his remains. Jimmy was still sitting in his urn on some particular shelf, waiting, while Junior followed this new and compelling trail. A familiar panic began to strike him, adrenaline rush prickling his skin, tapping into something larger, humming the way acupuncture needles hit meridian pathways. He set his chopsticks down in the porcelain holder and placed both hands around his warm teacup. He had that sinking feeling his tłaajíèè ditłidí were leading him down a troublesome alley, and he let himself travel along behind those trousers, curious to see where they were going. He drifted, and in his mind’s eye visualized red canyon walls, petroglyphs, felt a fine sheen of sand blowing in a chill wind. He smelled spring grasses, tasted cool water that was partially snowmelt, partially rising up from the earth, and he could hear the tinkling of sheep’s bells among the barking of young dogs who were supposed to be working but were playing for as long as they could get away with it. Someplace in this scenario, Chloe was nearby, and there was a pair of horses who knew the canyon deep in their genetic coding. Sheepishly, he looked up at the woman across from him. She had a smear of plum sauce at the corner of her mouth. He reached over and with his thumb and wiped it away, then stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked it clean. She’s going to be mine, he knew. Not how or where or when or even why, but it was a gift from the universe, and he could walk away from it or ask it to unfold in his arms.
“Why did you do that?”
Reluctant to exit his daydream, he saw her face suffused with blood, passionate heart energy directed toward him. This was the farewell appearance of his good sense, he recognized that much. His sober reasoning, which had served him so well, was falling off the wagon, voluntarily, headfirst into the snow. Ambulatory but limping, it trotted off, eager to party on the ice patches, happy to fall down perfectly manageable hills, to break important and necessary bones and carry on yodeling. Belatedly he gave her his answer. “Because it needed doing.”
She pointed at him with her chopsticks. “I’ve got a napkin, buddy. All you had to do was say something.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, but mind your manners. Now, this purple stuff that looks so terrible. What’s it called again?”
He straddled the two plains of existence, desperate to hold on to the vision, savoring the taste on his tongue. “Plum sauce.”
“Made with regular old tree plums?”
“I don’t know. I can ask the waiter.”
“Never mind. I don’t want anybody telling me there’s monkey brains in it. It tastes too wonderful.”
“No brains so far as I know of.” Not even in me, he thought, but damned if I’m going to let you in on that.
The wind blew and the snow thickened. Junior’s motel plan, which he’d mentioned just to get her used to the idea, and to buy time, was looking downright necessary. No way they could drive back to Cameron. Spending the night with her appealed to him; spending it in a ditch did not. The Pony Soldier was as good a place as any. Horse nut like her might even appreciate the funky neon sign, all those horses running in a perpetual, sizzling trot.
“I know you won’t believe this, but my room’s flooded,” Junior explained at Chloe’s door. “A pipe burst.”
“So get yourself another room.”
“Believe me, I tried. The guy at the desk said they’re full up, thanks to the snow. I told him to call me here as soon as they get the problem squared away.”
“If this is some kind of cheap—”
Silently, Junior toed off his left boot and removed his sock, squeezing it for emphasis. Water dripped through his fingers and spotted the carpet. Chloe sighed. “Come in. I was about to call Kit.”
From the queen bed nearest the door, Chloe dialed out. She listened a long time, then hung up. “Not home. Guess I’ll try the Trading Post.” She punched up those numbers and waited some more. “Oscar,” she said with relief into the receiver. “I know, I know. It’s a blizzard here, too. We’re going to have to stay the night in Flag. If you’ve got a pencil I’ll give you the number. By the way, heard from Hank?”
Barefooted, Junior got up and laid his socks across the heater vent. He stood at the window, pulling the heavy brocade curtains aside so he could look across the highway. The occasional optimist headed north, driving slowly in the dusk, headlights casting arcs of light across the white road. He remembered when the first hurricane warnings began to come over the radio in Provincetown, urging everyone who hadn’t evacuated to batten down the windows and stay indoors. Most residents were so eager to hang on to their small stretch of coastline, to have it to come back to, that they had amply prepared and stuck it out. Every year in the west, fires burned through the fore
sts, sometimes clearing whole groves of old growth, redefining the national parks and canyons, periodically reminding everyone to respect Mother Earth. Junior hadn’t nailed one thing down during the hurricane. He blew town, took care of some business in Manhattan, saw whatever play was getting the raves that month, and got taken out to dinner by some fawning gallery owner who wanted to show off his connection to Native America. On his return, only one pane of his front window was lost, knocked neatly out to the edges, as if excised by a glazier’s knife. A puddle marked the wood floor beneath the window. Walking the streets in the storm’s aftermath, this undeserved luck convinced Junior it was time to stop hiding out on the East Coast. He took long walks on the beach, exercising dogs for his fellow artists, men who had gotten too sick to do it themselves. He continued to set stones in patterns so familiar he could have done them in his sleep, and there was never a problem unloading his silver. But after awhile he couldn’t call this kind of activity art. He needed to be uncomfortable to get to the heart of things, and knew that if he hightailed his skinny half-blood butt back to where he’d grown up, laid his cheek against the cracked, red earth, eventually he would come face to face with the cottonwood tree where his mother had strung herself up like a gutted deer, and that was where he would discover what was missing. He’d known that even before he heard his father was dead, but Jimmy’s death made going home that much easier. Now he was learning a lesson from another storm. For that, Hank Oliver might decide to punch him out. So be it; a night alone with Chloe might be worth a broken nose.
“Jesus H. Christ, Kit,” Chloe was saying into the motel phone. “I’m a mother now. I think I can keep a governor on my hormones for one night. Trust me, okay? And make sure Hannah has fresh water. Eating snow makes her puke. When Hank gets in tonight, tell him to call here.” She paused. “Well, I guess you can wake me up then.”
She hung up the phone. “Teenage,” she offered.
“Temporarily wiser than the Dalai Lama.”
Loving Chloe Page 18